taste like a poem, like religion
A passionate hunger blossoms beneath her porcelain breast, where fever turns to wicked devotion–wicked devotion, to frenzied want. She can feel it in her heart, budding like a new-rose against the eclipsing, auroral moon of her emotions, her thoughts, her intimate desires. She can feel it in the way his voice breaks her consciousness, like an ocean-tide; crashing roughly against the glacial veins of her serpent-heart. Her heart is ice, yet o–he threatens that, too. The danger of him, the mystery of him, becomes all too-irresistible. Consuming her thoughts, even as she stood beside him now, fixated upon the silent, pulsating language of his own wild soul–
Euryale remembers how soft he had been, when she had first met this ocean prince by the relentless, whispering oceans of Terminus Sea. She remembers the way the water moaned for his name. She remembers his armour made of constellations, the way his skin shuddered against hers in the dim moonlight as they stood side by side then, drinking in the dark, beachside ambience with the sultry, midnight moon gleaming against their skins. She remembers the way his breath fell to quickening with desire, or fear–she could not tell back then, but in the hear and now, with her wolven impulse drinking him in; she cannot sense any fear in him. Only dare, even dark impulsion. There is a new recklessness in Asterion–a recklessness, a danger, she so loves. It makes her want him even more.
Euryale does not want this moment to end–not with the promise of his flesh so warm against her lips. His skin pressed like heaven against her mouth. Not with the heat of his masculine body brushing so intimately against hers, as they share their warmth beneath the gilded rays of sunlight receding through soft, gossamer clouds that flew its austere veil against their skins like two lovers at dawn. “And the stars on your skin, Asterion–how did they get there?” Euryale breathes those words, darker. Huskier. Like holy prayer, like wicked devotion–ghosting her lips above his own lips, pressing a shadow of a kiss against his mouth. It is almost a whisper, almost a moan–the way she breathes out his name like darkness leaving her lungs, escaping her soul in fragments of passion and celestial light.
When her breath falls against him, it falls silky and ethereal. Within its hiss, caress tempest passions–a promise for something more, something deeper (like lust, or love). She leans into the strength of his chest, finding sanctuary in his embrace, though they overlooked the roaring lands and seas below, a dangerous breath away from falling into its violent riptide, its great below. Euryale bows into the rippling shadows of his swarthy frame, pressing into him with a soft purr. She could linger in the memory of his scent, bask in the vicious undertow of this wild devotion. Her skull tilts against his, their brows touch, and when she speaks it is almost sweet, almost saccharine. “In my softest moments, I too, would gaze up at the heavens–but only at night, and only for the moon,” She whispers those words against his ear as he steals a kiss along the crest of her neck. Beneath the dusky slants of raw light, he is lean, carved–he is someone she can lean into, someone she finds strength in.
“Brave knights are too good for this world,” She almost wants to taste him. To drag her fangs across his skin and leave lovebites there. To draw blood from his throat and call it another kiss. But she does not, she only supresses the thought of kissing him in such a damning way. She resists the urge within her to devour, to consume–when the wolf rises within her throat, its jaws only howl with tender, aching want. The icy witch holds her love for him in a secret place in her heart. “Show me then. Your magic?” The snow billows around them, the ivory flakes descending upon her heavily-fanned lashes. When she breathes in, she exhales out–a spectral kiss, aimed straight into his soul.
@Asterion
